


Hayseed Lothario

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Mystrade Story Times [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But He Gets There, Greg's a bit slow, M/M, Mycroft drops his Gs, Mycroft wears jeans, Mystrade Story Time, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, a thin veneer of plot, did I mention THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED?, its for a case, not really - Freeform, what could happen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26393566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Stranded in a small Texas town for a case, Greg is floored when Mycroft blends seamlessly in with the people around them. He's also floored by Mycroft's indecently thin t-shirt and his skin-tight jeans. These things are NOT helping his crush on the elder Holmes.Mycroft can't believe he let Sherlock and Anthea convince him that THIS was the way he could finally seduce Greg. He may have feelings for the DI, but the man's a bit of a blockhead when it comes to picking up on flirting.Enter our friends, Alcohol and There Was Only One Bed.
Relationships: Mycroft/Greg, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: Mystrade Story Times [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1335472
Comments: 17
Kudos: 149





	Hayseed Lothario

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: Boot Scootin' Nookie
> 
> Originally posted to Twitter as a Mystrade Story Time. Follow me @savvyblunders!
> 
> Outtakes (not that I could be arsed to write them) include:  
> Sherlock grudingly admitting that Mycroft is a better dancer and then going home to dance for John and then take him to bed and prove just how good his own dance-to-fuck correlation is  
> Anthea ordering Mycroft's clothing selection--two sizes too small  
> Darcy leaving Greg confused af by asking him about South Africa the rest of the night  
> Post-sex Mycroft singing and dancing to 'Smooth Criminal' in triumph at having successfully pulled off a caper and gotten his man--Greg, naturally, enjoys the naked show immensely  
> Gratuitous scenes of Mycroft and Greg getting Sonic slushes and then driving out to the countryside to look at the stars and make out from the hay-and-quilt-lined bed of a pick up

Pint in hand, Greg raised his arm and his voice as she sang along with the rest of the crowded pub, "Sweet Caroline, bum bum bum!" As someone squeezed in next to him, jostling his elbow, Greg licked beer from his wrist and turned to voice a friendly complaint. He froze, eyes comically wide. It was Mycroft. _Mycroft._ In-in-in painted on jeans, his nipples practically visible through a faded t-shirt, wearing a ballcap and gripping a long-neck bottle. "Hnng?" Greg managed.

Mycroft raised his bottle at him. "Hullo."

"Nngk?"

Mycroft's eyes were definitely twinkling. Greg wondered if he'd been roofied. Maybe both of them had been. "Partner," Mycroft greeted him laconically, smirking.

"What--what are you doing here?" He had expected Mycroft to have checked in to their motel and be hiding in the room.

"Blending in," Mycroft murmured, sipping his beer. From beneath the brim of his cap his eyes skimmed the room, keen and searching, although his body language remained relaxed. "Mingling with the locals."

"You hate mingling," Greg pointed out.

"Yes. But this is a job." Mycroft grimaced, "So long as we've been abandoned here we might as well do what we came for."

"I think Sherlock just said that to lure us here and dump us in the middle of nowhere," Greg sighed.

"Possibly," Mycroft conceded, "but I think that was merely a happy accident on his part--the job still needs doing. Incoming."

"Huh?"

_"Incoming."_ Mycroft tipped his head ever-so-casually at the teeming dance floor and Greg barely kept himself from turning to look. He trusted Mycroft to have his back. The warning kept him from flinching and overreacting, though, when a hand landed on his arm. It was a cute brunette in elaborate boots and scant clothing. Perhaps as a concession to the heat but more likely in an effort to look alluring. It worked. Greg grinned automatically when she beamed at him.

"Hi!"

"Hi!" He thought, but couldn't be certain, that Mycroft muttered something sarcastic. It was too loud to be sure and he found it hard to take his eyes off the tanned expanse of cleavage on display.

"I'm Darcy--wanna dance?"

He cast an uncertain look at the coordinated masses. "Um...I'm not sure how to..."

She looked a little disappointed, "I can teach you."

"I'm not a very good dancer," he excused, supposing he should try for the sake of their cover.

"I'll dance with you, darlin'," came a lazy, seductive voice to their left. Greg and Darcy both looked at Mycroft in surprise.

Darcy's surprise was quickly tossed off in favor of delight. "Yeah? Alright!" She took Mycroft's hand and pulled him onto the dance floor, barely giving him time to shove his long neck in Greg's hand. Beer in each hand, he stared after them in bemusement. What the actual fuck?

* * *

Suppressing a smirk, Mycroft twirled Darcy beneath his arm expertly, and did a showy turn, leaving her laughing breathlessly.

"You're good!"

"Thanks. So're you."

Her smile was flirtatious, more as a matter of habit than actual intent. "Yanno what they say about a man who knows how to dance."

"He took lessons?"

She giggled, "You're funny. No, that he's..." she slid the hand on his shoulder down his back, nearly cupping his arse, "Good in bed."

Dear Christ. Mycroft resisted rolling his eyes, just. "A gentleman never tells." He winked and gave her another twirl.

"So is your friend, like, Irish, or something?"

"South African," Mycroft lied without regret, unable to keep a sneer from edging into his smile. Since Darcy was looking everywhere but at his face, he felt permitted to do so.

"Wow!"

"Yeah, _wow."_ Mycroft's patience had slipped. The song came to an end and Mycroft let her go, clapping along with the crowd.

"Thanks for the dance!" Darcy said brightly, lingering.

Mycroft smiled, "Pleasure's mine, darlin'," tipped his hat and hurried back to Greg. There was only so much mingling he could manfully endure. This debacle was Sherlock and Anthea's fault. They'd been persuasive in their arguments, but instead of the sultry affair he'd hoped to be tipped into, Mycroft was in a crowded dance hall. Instead of feeling Greg's sweat-glazed skin pressed to his own, he was dancing with fools.

Sherlock had been surprisingly encouraging in his effort to get Mycroft to, quote, "Finally get off your arse and seduce Graham." Now that his younger brother was happy with his doctor, he wanted the same for others. He'd pointed out Mycroft's superior dancing skills and the popular correlation of a good dancer possessing bedroom prowess.

Anthea, damn her eyes, was fully aware of Mycroft's decades long crush on the man, and had been all too helpful in setting this all up. Including his outfit. She'd pointed out that Mycroft had, in her words, an arse fit for groping, and legs that wouldn't quit. Ridiculous and embarrasing, but surprisingly supportive when one had been drinking and was in the right frame of mind to be influenced. Now here he was, dressed like some sort of hayseed Lothario, cheek and jowl with the locals, befuddling Greg with his seamless performance, and nowhere near tumbling him into bed.

Thrice damn the entire endeavour. What he needed was another beer...

* * *

Mycroft was tipsy. Adorably tipsy, like a floppy bunny. Greg, one arm wound securely around Mycroft's waist, grinned to himself as he fumbled to swipe the keycard to their room. While the other man was nowhere near drunk, he was so much... _looser_ than usual. For instance, he was allowing Greg to touch him. Swallowing a sigh that it wasn't the kind of touching he'd like to be doing, Greg manoeuvred Mycroft through the door and let it fall shut behind them. He fell mute on seeing their room for the first time.

There was only one bed.

"Um...here, lemme get you some water while you get your boots off," Greg managed to say, strangled. In the tiny en suite, he stared slightly terrified into his own stricken eyes, and filled a plastic cup with tap water.

Mycroft, meanwhile, had flopped back on the bed, still dressed.

"Need help with your boots?" Greg asked, sitting the cup down. He tried not to stare at Mycroft's mile-long legs.

"Hmm," Mycroft hummed lazily, extending one impossibly long leg gracefully into the air. He waggled his foot, giggling a little, "Gimme a hand...Greg."

"Oh I'll give you a hand alright," Greg muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He sighed, pulled his moral fortitude together, and smiled grimly. "Right then."

Mycroft was remarkably unhelpful. He kept...wriggling. Then he suddenly was face down on the bed, spectacular arse in the air, still wriggling. Greg snapped his eyes shut, too late. He prayed for patience. He prayed for death, which seemed more likely.

"Probably need help getting my trouser off too," Mycroft said, as Greg tugged. "You need leverage," He looked over one shoulder, pupils huge, "You should touch my arse. I mean, put one foot on it." He blinked, smiled angelically, "For leverage."

Dear. God.

Which was how he found himself, a minute later, one foot on Mycroft's noteworthy posterior, his hands wrapped around Mycroft's ankle. "Mmm," Mycroft hummed approvingly as his body jiggled on the bouncy mattress. "You're so...forceful. I love it." _Help me,_ Greg thought desperately, not sure who he was asking for help. Anyone, at this point, frankly. The boot came free at last. The second boot came off more easily, and Greg stepped back, thankful.

"I'll just--" die? Implode? Explode? Murder Sherlock?

"You should take off your clothes and come to bed," Mycroft purred, somehow skinning out of his jeans without getting up. He flung them at Greg's face, grinning brightly, "I can't be the only naked one."

"You're not--" His t-shirt sailed over Greg's shoulder and his pants hit Greg in the face, "--naked." Mycroft, now fully nude, looked good enough to eat. Greg swallowed a scream and turned away like a gentleman. After a good, possibly too-long, look because he was, after all, also a man. "Shower!" he exploded, mind coming back online. He dropped Mycroft's pants and fled. Greg had barely made it under the warm spray when the door opened and Mycroft stood framed in the opening.

"I'm trying to seduce you," he grumped, hands on hips. Greg found naked, annoyed Mycroft surprisingly effecting. Hard to say, even, which was doing more for him.

_I'm so gone on this man,_ he thought in fond despair. "You're trying to...what? Seduce? Me?" His voice rose, incredulous, _"Me?"_

"Ding, ding, _ding_ , give the man a cigar," Mycroft said snidely, and stepped inside the shower cubicle with him, smiling. "Now would be the time," he said with surprisingly sober courtesy, "to tell me if my advances are unwelcome."

"Oh," said Greg, nobody's fool, "They're welcome, alright." He pulled the shower curtain to, enclosing them in a humid bubble of intimacy. "You sure about this, Holmes?"

"I'd hardly have set this whole thing up if I wasn't, Lestrade." Mycroft's smile was pure, wicked Holmes.

Greg started laughing, "Oh my god, you're a menace!" He put his arms around Mycroft, pulling him close, "Nutter," he said fondly, and kissed Mycroft's smiling lips.


End file.
